


ready for you whenever

by caramelle



Series: whenever you want to begin [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, also because nobody even questions the possibility of bellamy being all about that durrty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 12:56:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4264008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke is determined to salvage her bad rep with mushroom risotto. Bellamy helps — not very helpfully.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ready for you whenever

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the smutty outtake from 'whenever you want to begin' that nobody but me asked for, but i hope everyone enjoys as much as i did. 
> 
> if you haven't read that yet, no worries. this is essentially 2.5k words of smut, and the plot neither exists nor matters. (though i would love it if you did check that fic out eventually!) 
> 
> set about ten months after Bellamy and Clarke get over themselves and get back together, just in case anyone's wondering.
> 
> (and finally - title very, VERY loosely adapted from 'Hiding' by Florence + the Machine)
> 
> onwards!

Clarke picks up her phone for what feels like the hundredth time, brushing stray blonde strands out of her slightly sticky face as she squints at the recipe pulled up on the screen. Finding the information she needs, she nods slightly to herself before setting the phone a safe distance away from the bubbling pot and picking up a wooden spoon to stir the contents with. She glances at her still-glowing screen briefly, wondering how much time she has before—

 

The apartment door opens loudly, and she huffs a quiet laugh under her breath. _The one time he’s early. Of course._ She listens idly to the sounds of someone fussing with jacket and bag and shoes, most of her concentration still centred on wielding the spoon.

 

She smiles when she feels him come up behind her, a warm nose burrowing into the base of her messy bun as large hands descend on her hips, pulling her back against him even as he presses her forward, into the counter. “Long day?”

 

Bellamy breathes deep into her hair, exhaling warm air all over her sensitive scalp and neck. “I really, _really_ —” her smile widens at the sensation of his fingers tightening on her hips “— _hate_ freshmen.”

 

She laughs, turning down the gas until the vigorously bubbling liquid eases to a light simmer, her left hand continuing to stir in steady, circular motions. “Well, half of them probably hate you too. Saw your grade book from last week’s midterm.”

 

He grunts in dissatisfaction, left hand moving under her shirt to play with the waistband of her sleep shorts as the right slides around to her ass — and here her breath hitches slightly, caught off guard — kneading the rounded flesh firmly, languorously. “Whole fucking day, all I could think about was getting home to you,” he tells her, voice dropping a couple pitches as he noses into her temple. His hot breath stirs over her tingling ear, sending little lightning bolts streaking across the surface of her skin.

 

She presses back into him, head falling back slightly as she fights the urge to moan desperately at how fucking _good_ his hand feels on her ass. He bends to take advantage of the newly exposed skin, lips moving against her neck as she tries to steady her escalating pants. “Missed you too,” she manages through shallow breaths.

 

He growls slightly against her neck, his left hand clenching around the waistband of her shorts before tugging them down and off her hips in one quick movement, letting them pool around her ankles. She closes her eyes and dips her head forward, willing her knees to support her as his hand immediately returns to press against the waistline of her panties.

 

“Missed me?” he asks, continuing to tease her ass with firm grips and rubs of his strong hand. The other one dips beneath the fabric of her panties, resting just above her pelvic bone. “Or missed this?” Not one square inch of his right hand loses contact with her rapidly heating skin as it slides again — over the soft globe of her ass cheek and under, to cup her fully over her underwear. She sighs at the all too welcome sensation of his large hand covering her sensitive pussy, the unexpected warmth simultaneously introducing instant relief _and_ a new kind of torture, even through the material.

 

“Both,” she tries to say, but it comes out as more of a gasp, thanks to the feeling of a single finger dipping beneath her panties to trail across the heated flesh beneath. She vaguely realises he’s smiling against her neck, but before she can turn her head to catch his lips with hers, he’s moving back up.

“Keep stirring,” he breathes lowly into her ear, his finger still tracing her labia at a frustratingly leisured pace. She grits her teeth and adjusts her grip on the wooden spoon, forcing her arm to resume making circular arcs over the bubbling pot.

 

His wandering finger ghosts over her already slick entrance, and her insides clench involuntarily at the feeling. _So fucking close._ “Good girl,” he tells her, nuzzling into the hair at her temple. She knows the praise is directed at both aspects of her responsiveness, and the muscles of her thighs clench with the effort of not closing over his hand to force more contact. She’s about two seconds from losing it and turning around to grab him by the collar and demand that he get on with it and _fuck her right now_ , her free hand tightening over the edge of the counter in an attempt to maintain restraint. Any further contemplation of the idea goes to shot when his thick finger suddenly slides almost all the way into her soaked pussy, and she _keens_ , loud and desperate, bending forward slightly over the stove to give him more access.

 

“So fucking wet,” he murmurs approvingly, lips brushing the shell of her ear with his finger buried almost entirely inside of her, not moving an inch. “Always so fucking wet.”

 

She moans in response, still unable to string actual words together in any kind of halfway coherent combination. Her hips push back against his, desperate for him to _move_. He hums reassuringly in response, his free hand rubbing unhurried, comforting circles over her hip. “I know, princess. I know.” He pulls his finger out of her, _slowly_ , and she flushes at the slight squelching sound it makes as it moves through her wetness. He languidly drags his drenched finger up her entire slit, drawing an imaginary line from her asshole all the way to her clit, circling lazily as the heat emanating from his large palm completely covers her pussy. She bites down on her lip _hard_ to keep from screaming in equal parts satisfaction and frustration, relishing the tightening in her core. “I know _exactly_ what my princess wants,” he says against the skin right behind her ear, deliberately taking his time to draw out each word, making sure to dance _right around_ her clit, avoiding direct contact.

 

She shivers slightly at the feeling of his chest rumbling against her back with how low his voice has dropped. Her heavy lids fly open when his left hand leaves her hip to cover hers, closing over her grip on the spoon. “Come on, Clarke,” he admonishes hotly against her ear, guiding her to restart her stirring motions for the second time. “You can do better than this, can’t you?” He nips at her earlobe and the skin behind it, sharply but briefly. _Fuck._ He knows _for damn sure_ that anything to do with her ears sets her off faster than a rocket, and he hasn’t fucking _let up_ on them _at all_ , exhaling warmly and fucking _mouthing_ at them the whole damn time.

 

She presses her lips together in determination and focuses on stirring, her right hand clenching over the counter edge. Her renewed resolution crumbles slightly when his finger leaves her clit to press into her entrance again, fragmenting even further when he pushes his thick finger nearly all the way in and _holds_ it there, like before. She wonders if she even has it in her to take a second round of teasing, but before she can fully deliberate the option of shoving him to the floor and straddling him, he starts to move — slowly, deliberately, torturously, but the glorious friction draws another moan from her even as she pushes back in time with his measured thrusts.

 

“This is what my princess wants, isn’t it,” he asks lowly, the steady rhythm of his finger never faltering once. “This what you’ve thought about all day?”

 

“Yes,” she breathes, eyelids falling shut once again as she tries to wholly savour the entirety of the sensations flooding throughout her. “Yes, all day, just you.”

 

He pauses as another finger sneaks under the fabric of her panties to press against her soaked pussy, hissing as he eases it in to join its brother. “Fuck. So fucking tight, princess.” He starts to move the two digits together, in and out, in and out, groaning at the wet sounds eliciting from her slick entrance. “Always — so — fucking — _tight_ ,” he tells her, grunting slightly as he punctuates each word with a deliciously deep, maddeningly slow thrust.

 

She’s all but abandoned any pretenses of continuing to stir the pot, her grip on the spoon long relinquished in favour of reaching back to grab at the dark, thick curls growing at the base of his skull. “ _Bellamy_.”

 

His left hand leaves her hip, curling across her front to turn the gas knob all the way off before returning to its position pressed against the skin over her pelvic bone. Two fingers still moving steadily within her, his left starts sliding steadily up and over the slight curve of her belly, still ensconced within the shelter of his old college tee that she’d commandeered long ago for sleepwear. She pushes back against him more forcefully, more insistently, in a bid to get him to hasten the agonisingly slow pace he’d set. “Ask me what I thought about, princess,” he breathes through lips ghosting over the shell of her ear in that way he _knows_ drives her _up the fucking wall_. “Ask me what was in my head all day.” His hand splays over her ribs and rests there, exerting a gentle pressure to keep her back pressed to his chest.

 

She moans, arching back against him in desperation, her grip on his hair tightening and twisting every which way in an effort to hold on to rapidly fraying reins of control. “What—” she’s suddenly _very_ aware of his hardness jutting into her even through the restricting denim of his jeans, and fails miserably at suppressing the needy groan that escapes her at the sinful friction the material generates against the smooth skin of her ass. She presses her lips together, swallowing hard. “What were you thinking about all day?”

 

Her hand involuntarily yanks on his roots a little harder than intended when his crotch suddenly cants into her ass forcefully, letting her feel the she has effect on him. “I was _thinking_ ,” he begins huskily, the fingers in her pussy slowing even more as he allows his hips to continue grinding against her sensitive ass in a rhythm that’s steady and dirty and hard, “I was _thinking_ … I haven’t felt you come apart on nothing but my fingers in _far_ too long.”

 

Her knees give slightly at that, and she’s grateful for the hand pressed across her ribs, keeping her mostly upright save for the slight forward bend. Her hips and thighs are securely trapped between his body and the counter, and she feels her cunt clenching around his fingers at the thrill it brings. He doesn’t miss that, lips curving up at the edges as he noses at her temple again. “You like that, princess? You like when I fuck you with nothing but my fingers?”

 

“Yes,” she gasps, before he can do something else to completely eradicate her powers of coherent speech. “I fucking love when you fuck me like this, oh God.”

 

His smirk turns into a grin, and he nips slightly at her ear as the speed of his fingers picks up — not much, but enough to let her know she’s being rewarded. “I fucking _love_ fucking you like this,” he tells her, warm breaths huffing against her over-stimulated ear. “So warm. So tight. So fucking _wet_.” The relentless grinding of his hips quickens to match the rhythm of his fingers, and her eyes roll up for a second at the wonderful, _wonderful_ havoc the double assault is wreaking on her senses. She feels a new wave of wet heat rushing in, washing over his fingers, and thanks every deity she knows of that when he decides it’s time to add a third. “Aren’t you, princess?” She nods frantically, biting her lower lip in eager anticipation. Fuck, the _neighbours_ can probably hear how wet she is through the damn walls.

 

As the extra digit slides slowly into her pussy, all cognitive abilities seem to rush right out of her head. She tries her best to convey all her enthusiastic agreement for his description in a single, low, drawn out whine, the knuckles of her right hand slowly losing what little colour it had to begin with from the long minutes of feverishly gripping the counter edge. She registers hazily that he’s repeating his question, demanding a proper response.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” she moans, before he can be tempted to cease all movements. “ _Yes_ , I’m fucking _dripping_ for you, always so _wet_ for you, _Bellamy_.”

 

He immediately increases the pace of both his fingers and his hips, and she lets out a surprised “oh!” before it’s quickly replaced by the loud moans rising at the back of her throat, elbow bending at an angle to maintain her supportive grip on the counter even as she leans further over the stove to intensify the rhythm of her own hips, pushing back against his hand and still-covered cock urgently.

 

“You feel that?” he says against the slightly matted hair at her temple. “God, you’re fucking _soaking_ your panties, princess. You want them off? You want to feel me on your bare pussy?”

 

She keens loudly at his words, rocking harder against his hand. **_So_** _fucking close._

 

“Then you know what you gotta do, princess.” His voice drops deeper, rougher. “You’re right there, aren’t you? Let go for me.” He suckles on her earlobe, and she gasps at the added stimulation. “You’re going to fucking come on my fingers, Clarke — _right now_.”

 

She wails outright, flinging her head back against his shoulder as she feels the rush of heat deep within her, her slick walls clenching and tightening around his fingers still thrusting deeply in and out of her. Her hips undulate uncontrollably, his other hand pressing harder against her ribs to secure her to him as she spasms violently. His fingers slow their merciless rhythm, continuing to move in and out of her as he lets her ride out the aftershocks of her orgasm.

 

Her eyelids flutter open when his fingers pull out of her completely, sliding back up to squeeze her ass again, this time under the fabric of her panties. “That’s a good girl,” he enthuses huskily into her ear. “That’s my good girl. And you know what good girls get, don’t you, princess?” The hand pressed against her ribs moves upwards to graze the undersides of her bare breasts, still heaving with the rest of her recovering, oversensitive body.

 

“Yes,” she breathes, arching back against his steadily kneading hand, relishing the skin-on-skin contact. “They get what they want.”

 

“Yes, they do,” he agrees, smiling at the whine of protest that escapes her when his hand leaves her ass to close around the waistband of her panties. “They get _exactly_ what they want.”

 

 

 

 

 

Thirty minutes later, Clarke dips a ladle into the salvaged risotto as Bellamy pours two generous glasses of wine.

 

“How the hell did you have the sense to turn the stove off,” she grumbles in amazement, carefully angling the ladle to deposit its aromatic load into the dish held up by her other hand.

 

He chuckles, corking the wine bottle as he turns to her, leaning in to press a kiss to her temple. “Just figured there’s really no need to test the smoke alarm twice in one month.”

 

  


End file.
